


Give Yourself Away

by Talik_Sanis



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Beefy Chat Noir, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Identity Reveal, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Marichat | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Protective Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29926992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talik_Sanis/pseuds/Talik_Sanis
Summary: Chat Noir is all floofy-wild.He's like a house cat who somehow just took his fur coat out of the dryer, radiating that scrumptious heat that makes her want to wrap herself up in him and snuggle in for a nap.Marinette finds a drunk two-hundred-pound-plus, six-foot-five, cat-eared slab of beef on her balcony, and comforts her kitty. Years later, Chat Noir has something vitally important to tell his princess before she gets married to another man.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 27
Kudos: 135





	Give Yourself Away

**Author's Note:**

> This work is just pure Marichat fluff and feelings. That's all that I wanted; that's all that you should expect.
> 
> Also, I was looking for some "Beef Noir" fiction, and found a paucity thereof on An Archive Of Our Own.

A yowling, crooning, slurring super-hero is crouched on her balcony railing, belt tail hanging low behind him.

Quite used to her kitty's antics, although stumbling drunk is a new look on him, Marinette merely arches a brow.

When he dismounts from his perch, first with one leg which paws at the air, looking for the ground, and then then other, he stumbles into her potted plants, arms flailing, toppling two of her flower pots.

The crash that probably wakes her parents leaves her wincing and frowning not out of anger but concern, particularly as he flinches away from her when she starts forward to try to catch him when he sways again.

“I'm so sorry, Marinette!” he nearly cries, eyes pinched up as he collapses to the ground and sifts through the piles of dirt and scattered petals mournfully, looking like he's just accidentally run over her puppy.

There is more to the wince than that – more than she can see or understand, and she hates it, even as she plasters a smile on her face to make him feel better.

“It's fine, Chat. There's no need to worry.” With slow, easy steps, she closes the gap and stoops down next to him to pull his fumbling hands into her own, gently smoothing away some of the dirt that's soiled his gauntlets. She takes in his face, slack and flushed red with drunkenness and marred with too much fear and regret for her to understand. “They're just plants. No harm done. Now, let's get you inside, okay?”

He nods, a droop.

There's little to be done with the flopsy feline other than bringing him to her chaise, so she scoops up the boneless bundle of leather and ... thick heated muscle which she notices, face flaming up because she may not _like_ him like that but she's only human, when he falls into her arms, lazes himself over her shoulders, and starts to rub his cheek against the top of her head while purring his effusive thanks, fumbling his words.

Settled on her chaise, he sulks and pouts as she sits down next to him, refusing to drink the cool tap water she brings him.

“Big catsh' don't drink water,” he slurs while trying to find a way to curl his entire two-hundred-plus pound slab of beef self into her lap. “And I'mma _big_ cat. Stray.”

Glaring in response to his watery kitten eyes, she refuses to let him have his way without drinking at least half the glass, which he does eventually.

A resounding purr booms through her bedroom, lustrous and heavy, falling on her ears in the audible equivalent of drinking heavy cream.

He had been a good kitty, so she lets him lay his head, at least, on her lap, delighting in the rumble that sends shivers through her thighs and stomach, and sings him to sleep because he needs her.

Then, smoothing the thick blond mop of hair from his face, smiling at the silly risk-taking cat, she freezes, fingers clenching as if riddled with arthritis.

Nearly hidden behind that extensive mask, peaking out like the sun cresting the horizon, is the edge of a purplish-black bruise.

She is Ladybug, though, and keeps her calm. It could have been an accident, just her kitty being a bit clumsy. If so, she'll make sure that he never goes out drinking unsupervised again.

It wasn't an accident.

The bender isn't the cause of the bruise; it's the result.

Marinette skips a day at school she cannot afford to miss, but does anyway, convincing her mother that she's sick with only a few words.

Abusing their trust leaves her stomach clenching with guilt, but the mere thought of abandoning Chat when he needs her, let alone actually doing so, makes her hate herself more than she ever even imagined possible

So, she spends the next morning talking, occasionally hugging, checking Chat's boundaries to make certain that he's okay with every touch along the way.

He is.

That night is the first in a regular series of visits, even though Chat steadfastly refuses to turn in, as she learns, his – his _sperm-donor_ , and Marinette doesn't know how to convince him otherwise. She wishes that she was older, wiser, or had someone she could talk to, but she's a coward about their secret identities, and can't risk it.

Even a gesture towards the idea of seeking help from authorities, or Chat's civilian teachers, or _anyone_ has Chat shutting down.

So she does what she can – the most that a teen can and more: give him a safe space where they just talk or watch sweet and fluffy anime like _Usagi Drop_ – Chat didn't know about the manga – that makes her big-hearted kitty cry because a sweet and innocent little child was adopted by a loving father twice over.

The inappropriateness of becoming Chat's mommy is obvious – as he's around eighteen, as far as she can tell, and, well, a slab of visibly tasty beef, “motherhood” has connotations that she doesn't want to consider – but she does kind of want to adopt him into her family.

So she does.

It becomes normal. Chat shows up for scheduled weekly friendship dates during which they pig out on leftovers from the bakery, but he has an open invitation to stop by whenever he needs.

He takes it too often, and not often enough, for Marinette to be comfortable.

An air mattress is purchased surreptitiously, and she sets it up in her room to give him something more comfortable than her chaise to sleep on.

He rarely uses it. Oh, the now semiweekly visits are the norm, but he so often clambers into her bed when she needs him, or he needs her... or they need each other.

When she wakes, slick with sweat and trembling, he's there, hand to her shoulder. Green eyes are luminous in the dark. The sclera are toxic, inhuman, but the emotion is all Chat – all adoration and fear for her, and when she remembers those dead blue eyes, the combination is nearly too much to endure.

To stop her from shivering, he eases the sheets aside, settling in to hold her, never asking her about the night-terrors all of which are about a white world, sand-blasted clean, absent of life, or of Chat himself, dead because she failed, or dead, even if the corpse is still walking.

Tonight, Marinette finds him, curled up on himself, head tucked into the crook of his elbow, and his knees to his chest. His spine twists at an odd angle so that every part of him look dreadfully uncomfortable while the totality is the pure placid, boneless relaxation of a snoozing cat.

Which he is.

Chat Noir is asleep on her chaise lounge.

That in itself is not unusual. Has it really been nearly two years of treats, naps, friendly cuddles, scratches, hair braiding, and a million other little things?

In all honesty, she's torn. A commissioned studded leather jacket for Jagged Stone lies partially-finished at her sewing desk, and Chat does look quite peacefully overall, but old fears prickle in the back of her lizard brain, a deep instinct that tells her something is just askew.

So she wakes him slowly, settling down in front of him and pressing her fingertips to the edge of the thick mask and tracing its contours while she relishes the feeling of his thick locks under her other hand. Every strand is smooth and glossy under her fingertips, parting and falling in lustrous waves that are natural unlike the coiffure of many of the models she's seen on the runway who are stylized and prim, teased into shape to fit a certain aesthetic.

Chat is all floofy-wild.

He's like a house cat who somehow just took his fur coat out of the dryer, radiating that scrumptious dryer heat that makes her want to wrap herself up in him and snuggle in for a nap.

She's grinning down at him while, after only a few seconds of easy stroking, he's snuffling up against her palm, bursts of air tickling her wrist. When she stops, a little hiss of air seeps through his brilliant teeth and he grumbles before opening his eyes, vibrant candy-apple green and blinks the sleep from his eyes.

“Marinette,” he sleepy-slurs as he gums his lips and smiles. “You're back.”

“Yeah, Chat. I'm back, and it's good to see you.”

“I know I didn't call ahead. I'm not bothering you, am I?”

She has to avoid looking to her workbench; it's pretty easy when he's all fluffy and adorable while rising to his hands and knees to arch his back and stretch with all the liquid grace of a panther and all the cuteness of a yawning puppy, fresh from a nap.

“Of course not. My window is always open, you know.”

He nods in a strange bounce, energy already building up, and she helps him to stand, tugging him to his feet using what he had termed her “bakery-girl strength” that had him flushing with awe even now, looking down at her from way, way above her head. Hot and broad enough to encircle her entire waist, his massive hands find her hips, and the size difference has her breath catching in her throat, the scent of leather-musk, anise, and clean skin tickling her nose in a way that doesn't make her want to sneeze.

She flushes and squirms, and even now she can't quite look him in the eye anymore. They're just too soft to be anything more or less than a suffocation hazard. “Would you like to play some video games? I- uh – I picked up Mario Cart 10.”

It's weird to see a grown six-foot-five man _squee_ like a child from one of the silly, light-hearted anime that Chat loves so much, but also something that Marinette wouldn't trade for the world as he scrabbles over to her television and console setup to start pawing through her collection of games, leaving her to cool down.

Fortunately, he's too much of a dork to know what sidling up to over two-hundred-fifty pounds (he's put on a good deal of weight over the last two years) of form-fitting-leather-clad beefiness does to a girl who's inclined towards men.

She shakes her head while settling down next to her cat, who's sitting with his legs crossed on the floor, just a little bit too close to the television because, as always, he wants the full experience of a child playing video games at his best friend's house.

And, as always, he pouts and play-sulks when she forces him to scootch back a few feet to preserve his eyesight, even if that is a myth – she doesn't know, and doesn't care because caution is always the best policy when it comes to her kitty.

Except when it comes to Mario Cart, and then the latest Super Smash Brothers release. Then, she can cut loose. Chat is initially insistent on selecting Mewtwo “because he's totally a cat, princess!” - even though, as she snarks, no, he totally isn't.

After a dozen rounds, they sneak downstairs to make hot chocolate.

Chat peers over the edge of the counter-top, chin in his hands, watching all of her motions; she feels the heated interest of his gaze drinking in every motion as she starts chopping up some Callebaut chocolate because they're going to do things right. No instant mix or gritty clumping cocoa powder.

It takes only a few crunches with the knife for her to beckon him over, and he looks for all the world like a student who has just been called on by a teacher for an answer that he doesn't have.

They'd made hot chocolate before; he just liked watching for reasons that he never shared.

But kitty needs to learn the lesson of that old children's story: “The Little Red Hen.”

_Now who will help me drink this hot chocolate?_

Also, seeing him in the kitchen, broad shoulders folding in as he leans down to make precision chops with his knife, so careful with it, and then scoop the small hunks into cream that has been brought up to temperature, melts her like the chocolate that he's swirling into the saucepan.

It's so... domestic, and he – _he's done so well._

When they first started, he couldn't use a knife safely- was almost terrified of chopping vegetables because he'd make an “idiot” of himself or hurt someone, he said in that soft watery-happy way of his, like he was just laughing off how much it hurt and embarrassed.

How to use a stove; how to peel potatoes; how to separate out laundry; how to make pancakes or bread or muffins from scratch; a million other little things that he didn't know and was so, so desperate to learn...

She's crying, just a little bit, and he notices because he always notices, taking the time to pour the hot chocolate into two mugs and then swallow her up into his arms.

It's impossible to tell how long they stand there, his nose to her scalp, breathing in her scent, and her doing the same, cradled to his chest.

The hot chocolate is still pleasantly warm when they break, so it can't have been too long.

No. It can never be too long.

They settle in with their hot chocolate and video games.

She kicks his feline butt – _fine_ though it might be in that tight leather that makes her hands itch just a little – all night.

Hot chocolate long since finished, she leans into his lap to press a thumb to his cheek, just under the pronounced bone, so she can swipe away a little streak of whipped cream.

The little fluttery breath that he releases, gentle puff pricking goosebumps along her wrist, is a sound like that a child would make, but his eyes are suddenly focused, narrowed to pinpricks as if she's all that he can see.

Mature.

 _Adult_.

Her tight, thin-strapped nightshirt itches and scrapes like hessian when he traces the edge with a claw, then a palm, ghosting the outline of her body. His hand is massive, warm, and it's so smooth and gentle even though he's not even touching her.

She can't even consider letting him go; the bumpy prickle of fine blonde stubble under her palm as she cups his cheek fully is sharp and so _male_.

Then, the moment breaks, and she's withdrawn into herself, blushing even though it makes no sense. It's not like they haven't been intimate for years, growing comfortable with the casual touches, and even the desperate ones when they just need someone to hold them.

“We're not going to be able to do this any more, you know?” he laments, having withdrawn to her chaise, playing with the holes in his belt tail. A claw slips from one notch to the next, while he looks up at her from behind his sloppy blond bangs.

“What you do mean, Chat?” She's next to him again, can't stay away, and pets the sliver of flesh just above his collar, keeping away from the sweet spot under his chin. She needs him lucid, of course.

“I mean, 'hero of Paris' Chat Noir isn't going to be sneaking into your family home at all hours of the night, so this... this may be our last time together.”

“We could set up a schedule if you wanted,” she assures because even though it's silly, he's breaking her heart. “Just for old time's sake.”  
  
“Really, princess? I don't think so. I mean, what would your husband think?”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “I don't think that he'd mind.”

“A studly stray sneaking in to snuggle his spouse?” Chat scoffs, so obviously flexing his pecs as he makes a dorky show of himself on her chaise, and it's cute but also... a lie – a cover. She sees that now. “He wouldn't _mind_?”

“Well, when you put it like _that_...”

“That's why I have to do this now, Marinette.” He sounds like he does – he _did_ – with Ladybug and she can't take that when she's raw and unprotected, without her mask. “I have to... to tell you what this has meant for me. What... _you_ mean to me.”

“Chat?” she breathes, that massive part of her heart that her kitty had always owned without his knowing it swelling up again. His sweetness and sheer gentle sincerity could still sometimes surprise her.

“Ever since we talked about- well. Ever since then, you've given me everything. Whenever I needed someone to talk to, or – or just a hug, you've been there.”

“I'll always be here for you,” she assures gently because she can do no less. “You know that, right?”

“But not in the same way. Not in this loft, or – or anything, and that's why- why I have to say goodbye to it, and tell you how much this meant.” His eyes are molten, all that green like flowing tree-sap, gumming her up, getting everything sticky and confused and complicated; drowning her.

“Show you how much _you_ mean to me.”

“Chat, I -”

He's kissing her.

Smooth leather of his palm to her cheek before she can even see him moving or think, he's kissing her and she's kissing back. Anise and musk flood her nose as she struggles to remember how to breathe through the sweet mint of his mouth that roves and teases, threatening to swallow up everything that she has left – the part that isn't already his.

She tries to follow when he breaks away from her, breathing hard, shuddering like his muscles are breaking down after a marathon akuma battle .

“ _Marinette_ ,” he begs in precisely the pitched whine that's stabbing through every inch of her body as she tumbles in and drowns in his easy touch and those gorgeous green eyes. “Let me show you.”

There's no thought – no world – beyond her sweet kitty as he smiles up at her, even towering above her. He's weak for her, and she can't even find one reason to say no.

After the heat, rise, fall, and cooling, they're laying together in her bed. The smooth, hairless skin of his waxed chest is clammy with sweat against her cheek as she nuzzles his throat, unable to cling on, but he holds tightly enough.

“Does your... husband – your fiance – does he love you enough?” he breathes into her hair, punctuating the question with a kiss that feels like a period rather than a question mark.

“He does, Chat.” The murmur is a low warble, slurred by a tongue that feels too large for her mouth as her eyes flutter. “He's loved me since the day that we met. It just took me a while to realize that I could love him too.”

“Really? I don't think that's possible. You're a precious gift, Marinette. All the scarves or sweaters and – and Christmas cookies in the world aren't one-one-millionth of you.” Lips are soft against her temple and they linger. “Your father is going to give you away next week, but- but you're giving the real gift: your heart and yourself. No one could appreciate that enough.”

“See, Chat. You're wrong. I'm the one who can't show people what they mean to me – how much they matter – in the way that I should.”

He smiles, and it's so genuinely happy for her that he's only affirming that she'll never be able to appreciate _everyone_ enough.

“Adrien's a very lucky man, My Lady.” He winks and she shoves him in the face for old time's sake, even if she's really just using it as an excuse to cup his cheek, thumb to the edge of his mask, before snuggling in again.

“Maybe.” They deserve to savour the afterglow, so she bears down, clenching her eyes and then forcing them open to ward off sleep. “But I'm the luckiest woman in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read; I hope that you've enjoyed the little slice of fluff and "new beginnings."
> 
> [I can't live with or without you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujNeHIo7oTE&ab_channel=U2VEVO)
> 
> Through the storm we reach the shore.  
> You give it all but I want more.


End file.
